


To All the Lovers in the House Tonight

by kedgeree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blues, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Inspired by Music, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade ends his days listening to music and drinking, just like Mycroft does, Mycroft  has no problem with that. The <em>problem</em> is that Lestrade, just like Mycroft, is supposed to end his days listening to music and drinking <em>alone</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydSqd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydSqd/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Всем влюбленным](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418598) by [AnniePhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnniePhoenix/pseuds/AnniePhoenix)



> This story is for the kindest, loveliest, and most patient [LydSqd](http://lydsqd.tumblr.com/). Thank you from me and from the [Rupert Graves Birthday Project](http://rupertgravesbirthdayproject.tumblr.com/Birthday2015) monkeys!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun for the quick beta!

Mycroft was furious with himself. He would never have needed to resort to such clumsy, amateur tactics if he had been surveilling Gregory Lestrade _properly_ in the first place. His shoes were sticking to the bar's wood floor, and he was probably going to have to _burn_ this suit. His ears were under assault from the cacophonous combination of music, such as it was, and people bellowing to be heard over said music. The thick, beer-and-lime scented crowd parted ranks for him to pass, stepping back with disconcerted little frowns at the tall, icy-eyed man in the power suit in the middle of their t-shirts and jeans, tattoos and ponytails. Mycroft took some small satisfaction from their deference.

It was a matter of _security_. It was a matter of Lestrade's association with Sherlock. It was a matter of the degree of intimacy Mycroft himself had allowed the man. For God's sake, they spoke _face-to-face_ these days.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with smirks and sarcasm and laughing brown eyes that were the brightest part of Mycroft's dreary days when he sat down to review video logs. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the possibility that had crept into Mycroft's mind that those candid smiles were recently being bestowed on a patron of this very bar. After all, Lestrade had been coming here a _lot_. There had to be a reason, and Mycroft had to see it for himself.

He had thought Grade Two surveillance sufficient—it had _been_ sufficient until Lestrade started visiting this establishment, this _La Granada_ , disappearing behind its dark-tinted windows. Who knew what the man got up to in a club like this? Dancing? Flirting?

Oh, yes. Lestrade's surveillance would be upgraded to Grade Three.

Mycroft swallowed sickly.

Lestrade might, at this very moment, be shoved up against a dirty bathroom wall, sweating and throbbing in time with this primitive rhythm, his thick fingers clenched in some stranger's hair—

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft was so startled by the warm, enthusiastic greeting that, in spite of the fact Lestrade had addressed him by name, he actually turned around to see if Lestrade was addressing someone else behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade, bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, and halfway out of his chair in his eagerness to be seen, waved him over.

 _Tipsy_. That explained the friendliness of the greeting, at least. Mycroft had always assumed that although Lestrade's natural demeanor was pleasant and professional, he found Mycroft as off-putting on a personal basis as everyone else in Mycroft's life did.

The question Lestrade posed was not one Mycroft had come unprepared to answer, of course, and Mycroft immediately put his plan into action. Rather than shouting his explanation over the general din, he simply reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile, surreptitiously pushing a single button as he did so. He held the phone up and gave Lestrade a pointed glare.

It took only a moment for Lestrade's expression to shift from open welcome to confusion to alarm.

"Oh, God, what's wrong?"

Lestrade's chair rocked on its back legs as he leapt to his feet, shoving a hand into his trouser pocket for his own mobile.

"I thought it was on vibrate. I _always_ put it on vibrate, I…"

While Lestrade thumbed anxiously through a screen full of missed message notifications from an anonymous sender on his phone's display, Mycroft scanned the little two-person table where Lestrade was sitting. The chair next to Lestrade's had not been occupied that night. So either Lestrade was waiting for a companion who had not yet arrived or he actually was here alone.

The musician onstage concluded her song with an emphatically-strummed chord and a stomp of one thick boot heel. The crowd's applause swelled and then died down, reducing the noise level to a more tolerable volume.

Lestrade made it to the last messages and looked up at Mycroft. His dark eyes were full of concern. "He's fine, Mr. Holmes. They're both fine. They left the stadium _ages_ ago."

"And the recovered shipment?"

"He didn't touch anything. Not a thing. John and I, we watched him. You…didn't see?"

"Obviously not," Mycroft sniffed. His ears were ringing slightly, but at least he could hear his own voice now. He could hear the echo of Sherlock in his affected petulance as well. _You're alike in the worst possible ways_ , Lestrade had said once in a moment when even _his_ immeasurable patience with the Holmes brothers had been waning. The statement was not inaccurate. Mycroft and Sherlock were certainly both prone to a certain ease with manipulation. Mycroft had seen it all on video. Sherlock had looked at the drugs. He had _thought_ about the drugs. But he had indeed not touched a thing and Mycroft had no concerns on the matter. "But I am relieved to hear it. At last."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes. There were cameras everywhere, absolutely everywhere, so I just assumed…" Lestrade frowned at his phone again. "And I _swear_ this thing was on vibrate."

"Malfunctioning, perhaps. Like the stadium cameras. Precisely the sort of risk that entails the need for _human_ observation and reporting."

"I really am sorry."

"Perhaps you were distracted by your upcoming social plans."

"My what?"

Mycroft waved a hand towards the unused chair, the phantom companion, at Lestrade's table.

Lestrade looked at the chair with a confused frown. "I'm not…expecting anyone. If that's what you're suggesting."

"Good."

"Sorry?"

"It is a good thing you're limiting your distractions, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade chuckled drily, looking around the bar. "I don't know I'd call this place exactly _non_ -distracting."

"A point I will concede," Mycroft grimaced.

Across the floor, a man and woman, each holding an acoustic guitar, were headed towards the stage. The man was the picture of business-conservative attire, tan trousers and a beige striped shirt, wire-framed glasses, and short, tidy hair. The woman beside him favored a more eclectic aesthetic in denim shorts, black tights, and vivid yellow pumps. Her hair was long on top, mostly magenta, and shaved close against her temples. A frightfully mismatched pair. Mycroft cringed inwardly at the idea of what their combined musical offering might entail.

"Or my present company."

Mycroft's eyes flicked back to Lestrade, who had spoken so quietly Mycroft was not entirely certain he had heard him correctly, much less understood his meaning. "I beg your pardon?"

Lestrade was watching him with the strangest expression. Earnest. Nervous, even. He licked his lips and said, "You should join me."

"For what reason?"

"Well, I put you out, yeah? So let me buy you a drink. You know, for your troubles. It's what people do, isn't it?" Lestrade offered a tentative smile. "As Sherlock would say."

Mycroft's gaze fell on the sweating, half-full tumbler of amber liquid in front of Lestrade's now-empty chair. "Inspector Lestrade, I do appreciate the gesture—"

Lestrade's cheeks were pink again. "It's not a gesture. It's a request. I'm off duty," Lestrade added, rather nonsensically to Mycroft's mind, but Lestrade said the words as though they held particular significance. "So…you could…join me. Look. I know we don't exactly…talk…much. And…you probably have somewhere better to be. More important. Less, er…"

"Sticky?"

"A point _I'll_ concede," Lestrade ducked his head, wincing. "Maybe I could have picked a better time for this. Or place. But, yeah…I mean…you're here _now,_ so you could maybe just…stay for a bit…for a drink. If you like."

And Lestrade looked up again. Directly at Mycroft. With his big brown eyes.

Mycroft considered the decision strategically, of course. Lestrade's offer clearly, despite his mild protest to the contrary, stemmed from a sense of obligation to a superior, but that was no reason not to take advantage of it. What could it hurt? Apart from possibly his musical sensibilities. And his esophagus, depending on the quality of the alcohol. But then sacrifices were part of his job. The longer Mycroft stayed, the longer he could monitor Lestrade's interactions, with whom he spoke, whom he watched. Any security scan _should_ be thorough.

Onstage the performers settled into their seats, speaking quietly to one another as began tuning their instruments.

"As it happens," Mycroft shrugged with what he thought was ample nonchalance, "I have no _pressing_ plans this evening."

"Well…great! That's great!" Lestrade beamed. "Come on, sit."

Mycroft allowed himself to be guided to the unused, rickety wooden chair at Lestrade's table. Lestrade held up two forward-facing fingers to the barman, who gave him a nod and a wink in between the heads of several other patrons crowding around the bar, then turned back to Mycroft and leaned in close. It was the closest Mycroft thought he'd ever been to Lestrade, side-by-side. Lestrade's eyes were on a level with Mycroft's, dark and smiling.

The stage lights dimmed to a soft blue. There was a shift in the atmosphere inside the club, an expectant hush as people turned from their conversations to face the performers.

"You'll like it," Lestrade murmured, so close to Mycroft's ear that Mycroft drew in a breath of surprise and shivered.

Onstage, the guitarists stilled. Locked eyes. And suddenly the odd pair were perfectly matched. The man smiled. The magenta-haired guitarist nodded three times, a rhythm, and they began to play. The music, immediately and almost startlingly intricate, washed over Mycroft like a fall of rain he hadn't seen coming in the darkness.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY DAY-AFTER-SPECIAL DAY! (Oh, yeah, and happy new year!) How are you doing, Mycroft fans...?! Mystrade fans...?! Blankets, anyone?

The music was picking up tempo, one guitarist's hand a blur over the strings while the other beat a soft, steady rhythm with her fingertips against the body of her guitar. The stage lights softened into dandelions of blue light in Mycroft's unfocused gaze, transported as he was by visions of raindrops dancing across a red-tiled courtyard and trickling through glossy green leaves. Somewhere in the music he could hear distant laughter, and every time he did his awareness of Lestrade's presence so close at his side intensified. He was no longer amongst the rabble at a run-down bar. He was at a garden party, but he had escaped to the terrace where it was just him and the rain. A spring rain, lively, expectant. Something was coming to life.

And Lestrade was with him.

Yes. Something was _definitely_ stirring.

Rainwaters coming together, beginning to course.

Mycroft was as prone to the needs of the flesh as most men, but he _managed_ them. Tidily, privately, and on a schedule. This music was not _for_ tidy and scheduled. This music was for the opposite of restraint. This music was for something Mycroft could never afford to do: letting go.

Someone in the crowd loosed an enthusiastic _whoop_ just as a thick, wiry-haired forearm reached over Mycroft's shoulder, and he started so violently he almost knocked over the glass that the barman was putting in front of him at the table.

A meaty hand withdrew and then clapped him on the shoulder. "That's an Ayrton Senna, mate."

Mycroft drew in a slow breath to recover himself, gave the lift of his chin an extra few degrees of arrogance. "Excuse me?"

The barman chuckled. "A Bill & Benner? Ten squid?"

"It's on me, Theo," Lestrade interjected after a glance at Mycroft's face. He smiled into his glass and knocked back the last swallow of his first drink.

Theo-the-Barman apparently thought Mycroft rather amusing as well. "Your gentleman here looks like he's a bit out of his element," he said to Lestrade, his tone good-natured. He had a booming voice, clearly practiced in being heard over the music and din of the bar. One of the patrons at a nearby table looked over curiously.

Lestrade shifted a little in his chair. "He's not my, er…he's a friend. And…yeah, I expect he is."

"About time's all I'm sayin'," smirked the barman. "So how d'you like your first taste of La Granada, then, guv?"

"It's…quite lively." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap delicately. "You have a robust clientele."

"Robust, eh?" Theo gave Mycroft an assessing look, then leaned in conspiratorially. "You know why we call the place La Granada?"

"The pomegranate?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. A symbol of resurrection, unlikely but possible. A symbol of prosperity. Either suggestion, Mycroft feared, might draw too much attention to the state of his trousers. Perhaps the owner hailed from the Alicante coast. Or simply enjoyed the fruit. "I couldn't possibly hazard a guess."

Theo thumped Lestrade, who was already cringing in anticipation, on the back. "'Cos it's a bit _seedy_ , yeah? Oh, go on, give us a laugh. _Robust_."

Mycroft's basic sense of civility balked. This person was clearly on friendly terms with Inspector Lestrade. Offering insult blatant enough for the man to understand was impolite. Furthermore, Mycroft was…in a sense…a _guest_ in his establishment. He sniffed proudly. "Sir, I certainly intended no disparagement—"

The barman guffawed and slapped Lestrade's shoulder again. "Ah, he's alright, Greg. His Nibs has got his foot tapping right along like the rest of us. We'll have this one up and dancing in no time."

Mycroft frowned down at his foot, which was indeed tapping in time with the music, now a rain of notes, each with the delicacy of a single droplet of water. He stilled it immediately.

Theo winked at Lestrade. "You boys have a good, friendly time, now."

"Cheers, Theo," Lestrade raised his glass amiably, then winced at Mycroft.

The crowd burst into loud applause as the first song concluded in a lingering, synchronized chord from the two guitarists. Mycroft might even have joined them—politely, of course—were he not a little put out at having been distracted from the performance.

Lestrade leaned in closer to Mycroft to be heard over clapping hands. "Sorry about that. He means well."

"Does he, indeed?" Mycroft took an experimental sniff of the contents of his tumbler, anticipating a faint aroma of petrol. "Oh!" His eyes went wide. Cedar and apple, wood smoke and walnut cake, so wonderful his mouth watered. He looked toward the bar, where Theo stood watching him with a sly expression, then back at Lestrade. Mycroft tipped his glass up and tasted to be certain. "This is _GlenDronach Parliament_ ," he breathed in surprise.

"I told you you'd like it. You think I don't know what a man like you likes?" Lestrade smiled smugly, then blinked. For a moment, even under the soft, red-tinted house lights, his cheeks seemed a bit more flushed. "To drink. That is."

 _A man like him_. Mycroft studied Lestrade out of the corner of his eyes as he raised his tumbler again. Lestrade had called him a _friend_. The next song began, slower than the last but strong and steady, like footsteps. The stride of a person with somewhere to be—that was _a man like him_. Mycroft knew that stride. Its rhythm was comforting. Perhaps he couldn't _let go_ , but Mycroft could take things in stride. Lestrade looked uncomfortable. What would a _friend_ do?

"Detective Inspector, I believe there is something I need to make _very_ clear regarding one of your bartender's inferences."

Lestrade's posture stiffened. "Yeah, okay. See, er, Theo, he likes to take the piss, that's all, it doesn't mean I _expect_ —"

"Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said sharply.

Lestrade instantly sat up a bit straighter. "Sir?"

"I _absolutely_ do not dance."

Lestrade stared for a moment, mouth falling open. "Was that…a joke?"

Mycroft inclined his head ever-so slightly in acknowledgment and took a small, savoring sip of his scotch. "Do enjoy the sensation. I make no promises it shall occur again."

"So you can understand why I wasn't quite sure," Lestrade said, but he was grinning now and Mycroft felt a swell of satisfaction.

"I assure you the Secretary of State for Transport has a far more appalling sense of humor."

"Then I'm glad I'm not having a drink with him."

"You are indeed fortunate in that regard." Mycroft raised his glass. "To good humor."

"To…my good fortune," Lestrade murmured. The low light had darkened his eyes. He clinked his glass against Mycroft's, a musical little kiss. "And to enjoying the sensation."

The music's pace was getting faster and the energy in the room was rising along with it. The walk had become a run. Long, loping strides that hovered in the air for the space of a heart-caught breath before they landed again. Trills of freedom with a steady thrum of danger just underneath.

Mycroft's first foray into _friendly_ repartee had been successful, it seemed. Well, he _was_ rather a natural at social intercourse, even if he had never undertaken a variation like this one before. There was really no reason for the flutter of nerves in his belly. This was really no different to his usual exchanges intended for information-gathering: coax and coerce, flatter and forage. He was doing well so far.

The alcohol had proven a successful topic, so Mycroft raised his glass again. "You have excellent taste, Detective Inspector."

"Yeah," Lestrade's gaze flicked down Mycroft's waistcoat. "I think so, too."

"In Scotch Whisky, at least, if not in all things."

Lestrade's forehead crinkled. "Okay."

"May I ask you a personal question?"

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his body a long line from thigh to shoulder, and raised an eyebrow. "I did mention I was off duty, didn't I?"

Mycroft looked around the bar, rubbed the edge of one thumb across the surface of the table, and frowned. "Why do you come here?"

"You know, I can't help but think you _do_ intend disparagement," smirked Lestrade.

The floor was beginning to vibrate with heels stomping along with the music. Mycroft felt the tremble in his stomach, and the swallow he took of his scotch was a careful one.

"Granted, disparagement _is_ my natural element. But in this particular instance I am merely curious." There was no _merely_ about it, Mycroft realized with a jolt. He was hanging upon Lestrade's response, sat forward, his body angled towards Lestrade's. The suspicion that had led him here could be confirmed in Lestrade's next words. Lestrade would get a wicked look in his eyes. And then: _My lover is a musician who performs here. Incredible fingering. My lover works the bar sometimes—she's the one with the really excellent taste. My lover is a virile Spanish bouncer_ _…oh, and he also does security at the club._

Lestrade looked away and shrugged. "No particular reason. Good music. Good drink. Just an end to the day, yeah?"

Something in Mycroft's chest twisted slightly, a breath of relief, but also something more. Had anyone asked how he ended his own days, the answer would have been the same. And while he was aware it was hardly an uncommon end-of-day routine, it felt like…a connection between them. A sad, secret sort of connection that he would never speak of, but a connection nevertheless, even if the music in Lestrade's club was quite different to the music Mycroft listened to by his fire at night.

But Lestrade was lying.

Mycroft had known immediately, and when Lestrade looked at him again it was clear he saw it in Mycroft's eyes.

"Okay," Lestrade snorted a laugh, smiled wryly. "Fine. That isn't the only reason."

"Go on."

"For the connection."

Mycroft's pulse leapt. "Connection." The word was snatched from his head.

"People," Lestrade shrugged. "Not just me, alone on my sofa. Here I feel…connected." He took a slow drink of his scotch, licked the corner of his mouth and looked at Mycroft. "Especially tonight."

Mycroft had ridden a motorbike once, back in his early university days, on a visit to Paris. Pitching around corners on dark, cobbled streets, his arms tight around the waist of a lean blond boy with arched eyebrows who had said he would be right back, he was just going to fetch them a bottle of wine to share, wait right there under the street lamp, _ch_ _éri_. Mycroft remembered the feel of the wind in his hair.

"Don't you feel it, too?" The glint in Lestrade's eyes, dark as the night sky, was just a bit…wicked.

Mycroft remembered the rain stinging his face.

The music was so fast now. Like a motorbike over cobbled stones. This was no thrill ride. This was a chase.

Mycroft pushed his chair back and stood, stiffly, abruptly. "Please excuse me."

Lestrade sat up, looking startled. "What?"

Mycroft was not so completely self-delusional as to truly believe he had feared a _security_ threat from Lestrade's social life. But now he'd been here, he'd seen _this_ Lestrade, and one thing was perfectly clear: Mycroft _was_ under attack. His pulse was hammering. He was in unfamiliar territory, and he was defenseless.

Gregory Lestrade was a _terrible_ security risk.

"Good evening, Inspector," Mycroft said coolly, and turned for the exit.

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

"We've got spectators," Lestrade muttered to Sherlock as they hunched over the body on the pavement. He could hear the growing noise from the other side of the street. "The killer might be one of them, looking on. They do that, sometimes."

"No," Sherlock said.

Lestrade raised up on one knee to peer over the barricade anyway—one of these days he _was_ going to spot something Sherlock missed—and there he was: Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade was so startled that he barely stopped himself from ducking back down to hide like a meerkat spotted by a hawk. It was too late, anyway. Mycroft was stood towards the back of the crowd, camouflaged in conservative grey and dull disinterest, inconspicuous as only a government man could be., but their eyes locked immediately. And even though Mycroft looked away instantly, it was too late for him, too: Lestrade had seen that moment of keen focus in his direction.

Well…good.  _Calm down_ , he told his suddenly hammering heart. It was a surprise, seeing him here, but it was  _good_  Lestrade had Mycroft's attention, because he needed it for what he had to say. This was what he'd been wanting. It had been several days since their drink together, days of uncertainty when—or even _if_ —he'd have another chance to speak to Mycroft. And now he had motive, means, _and_ opportunity. He pressed his lips together resolutely.

Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of Lestrade's face.

Lestrade started and smacked Sherlock's hand away. "Oi!"

"At least _try_ to focus," Sherlock demanded, pointing at the victim's chest. "Look here. These marks."

"Yeah, I see them. But what are they?"

Sherlock leaned in closer to the body. "They're _interesting_."

"That's helpful."

"Well, it's far more interesting than whatever irrelevance has you so riveted—" Sherlock snapped, following Lestrade's gaze. "Oh. Wonderful. Our keeper."

Lestrade rose a little stiffly to his feet from the cold pavement, glaring at Sherlock's Belstaffed shoulder as he did so. It would have made an excellent pushing-off point. Or pushing-over point. Lestrade was always a bit tempted. As much as he'd grown to care about and possibly even understand Sherlock, Lestrade bristled on Mycroft's behalf at every aspersion Sherlock cast in his direction. "He's not your _keeper_."

"Fine. _Your_ keeper. Best scurry over and find out what will make him go away most quickly," Sherlock shooed him. "Whatever I tell him, he'll want confirmation from you anyway."

"Can't imagine why he doesn't believe every word you say."

"And I can't imagine why he doesn't realize _you_ only know what I want you to know," Sherlock smirked up at him.

"Like why your scarf had to have an unplanned drop off at the cleaners this morning?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it with a _snap._ His exposed throat and face turned a rosy pink and his eyes flicked automatically to John, who was talking with the woman who'd discovered the victim.

Lestrade grinned as he peeled off his latex gloves, exchanging them for the warmer leather ones in his coat pocket. "Have _your_ keeper take a look at the body, will you?"

"Yes. Fine." Sherlock turned his attention pointedly back to the strange green marks on the man's chest, heat still vivid in his cheeks.

As he made his way around the barricade, Lestrade caught John's eye, motioning in Sherlock's direction to be certain his instructions were followed. John was writing in his notebook, but he caught Lestrade's wave and returned a brief nod of acknowledgment. They were developing a fairly decent Sherlock-at-crime-scene wrangling system, Lestrade thought, he and John.

From across the street, Mycroft looked as impeccable as ever, and up close possibly even more so. Not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on his thousand-pound wool coat, crisp shirt collar, his garnet tie a perfect knot. The overall impression Mycroft Holmes gave of superiority—as it was meant to, Lestrade was certain—always rattled Lestrade's confidence just a bit. That is, with one recent, notable, alcohol-fueled exception.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft nodded, cool and polite, with just a whiff of condescension.

"Fancy seeing me at a crime scene, huh?" Lestrade stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Or were you just passing by?"

Mycroft considered him for a long moment from under hooded eyes before he set his chin at its usual haughty angle and his mouth in its usual faint smirk. "I need a word with my brother. He, too, is known to be found at crime scenes."

So that was how Mycroft wanted to play it. Stiff upper lip and pretending nothing had happened between them. Too bloody bad. Lestrade was _not_ going to be intimidated away from what he had to say. Not this time. "Well, I need a word with _you_ , Mr. Holmes."

"Do you?" Mycroft's eyebrows rose.

"Yes, I do." Lestrade took a deep breath. "In private."

Mycroft frowned down at the handle of his umbrella and sighed. "Very well," he said softly.

They walked half a block from the cluster of onlookers eager for a peek at a dead body—and they called Sherlock a _freak_ for his morbid interests—and settled themselves in front of an iron work fence shielding the facade of a line of posh brick row houses. This was Mycroft's sort of neighborhood, or at least the sort of neighborhood Lestrade _imagined_ him inhabiting. In all their meetings and discussions of Sherlock's escapades, they had certainly never met at Mycroft Holmes's personal residence. Mycroft's sleek, expensive car, which Lestrade could now see waiting discreetly at the end of the street, fit right in with all the other sleek, expensive cars passing by on the adjoining street. The air smelled like cold stone and coins.

Lestrade was not going to be intimidated.

He turned to face Mycroft. "I want you to know I'd intended to apologize to you."

Mycroft twitched an eyebrow at him. "Whatever for?"

"Really?" Lestrade reached up to rub a hand over his mouth. "This is your masterful diplomatic strategy for awkward situations?"

The corners of Mycroft's mouth tightened.

"Alright then. For my completely inappropriate behavior the other night at my club, after you came _all_ that way so worried over what might have happened with Sherlock at the stadium bust. Thought I might have been a bit _forward_ , what with coming on to you so unsubtly it's a wonder I didn't just stick my hand down your trousers. At least that's the way I remember it. Ring any bells for you?"

There was a long silence.

Lestrade looked Mycroft square in the eye and waited, his heart pounding in his throat.

It was Mycroft who dropped his gaze. He shifted his posture uncomfortably. "There's no need to apologize—"

"I said I _had_ intended to apologize. But that was before I talked to Eddie."

Mycroft squinted up at him. The corners of his eyes were tight. "Eddie?"

"Eddie. Mate of mine, sort of."

"And what does _Eddie_ ," Mycroft over-enunciated the name with a dubious precision, "have to do with…the matter?"

"Eddie runs security at the stadium."

Mycroft blinked. "Ah."

"He takes care of the _malfunctioning_ cameras that had you so full of brotherly concern you had to track me down at my club. Thing is, though, those cameras were working perfectly that night. Every one. All night. Eddie showed me the video."

"Yes. I see," Mycroft said softly.

"You had access, I'm sure of it. You always have access. Which _means_ you knew bloody well that Sherlock was okay. You knew it already."

"I _have_ taken your point, Inspector. There is no need to belabor it."

"And there were no missed messages, were there? Because I _always_ have my mobile on." Lestrade jabbed his index finger in emphasis. "Always."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes. You do."

"Look, Mr. Holmes, maybe I'm still going to have to apologize. A lot. But if it wasn't to do with Sherlock, what were you doing there, what did you _come_ for? And why did you _stay_ for a drink with me?" Lestrade's voice caught at the end, hopeful that the ridiculous idea he'd formed, the point of this whole terrifying confrontation, might actually be the truth: Mycroft Holmes felt something for him, too. Attraction? Curiosity? There had been _something_ that night. He _hadn't_ imagined it.

Had he?

Mycroft returned his attention to his umbrella, frowning this time at its tip. "You addressed me by my given name."

"Er, what?"

"When I arrived at your _club_ , you addressed me by my given name. You address me as _Mr. Holmes_ , even now, but you think of me as _Mycroft_."

 _Mycroft._ It was true. Lestrade had whispered…sometimes moaned…the name inside his head. Many times. The memory made his face heat, like Mycroft might have had actually heard him, had some sort of surveillance inside his head. Or his shower. Or the loo at Scotland Yard with the door that locked. "Okay. Maybe I do. But that doesn't answer my question."

"I confess I have given considerable thought to this," Mycroft cleared his throat slightly and grimaced, " _issue_."

"This issue." Lestrade's stomach felt like it dropped several inches. He wasn't a potential...companion. He was an _issue_.

The rush of shame squeezed the breath out of his chest as he realized where he'd gone wrong. _Again_. Why did he always have to get it _wrong_? Big, brave detective inspector, thinking he was actually making his case.

Fuck.

Mycroft hadn't needed a camera in Lestrade's head. He'd always been able to read every unchaste, soft, or foolishly hopeful thought that Lestrade ever had right on his face, hadn't he? Mycroft had come to the club _because_ Lestrade's interest was becoming an _issue_. And Lestrade had made the situation, oh, about a _hundred_ times worse by _hitting on him_. 

He'd just said _hand down your trousers_ to Mycroft Holmes.

"And?" Lestrade tried to say the word with a dignified boldness, but it came out sounding like a gulp.

"And," Mycroft sniffed, adjusted his posture. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, are you free for tea tomorrow afternoon?"

Lestrade blinked. " _Tea_?"

 

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg really should have known better than to make 221B his first stop after tea.

The sun was hunkering low, peeking a tired yellow eye around the four-story brick residences lining Baker Street by the time Lestrade arrived, pink-cheeked from a brisk winter wind and a walking pace fueled by frustration. He stood on the front stoop and blew a few long, foggy breaths into the cold air, listening to the muffled sounds of music coming from above.

The violin serenaded him up the stairs to 221B, where there was a fire burning in the hearth and Sherlock and John looked to be settling in for quiet evening. Sherlock was facing one of the sitting room windows, his blue dressing gown swaying with the movement of his bow as he played. John was in his sock feet, shirt untucked, sitting at their cluttered, shared desk with his laptop open in front of him. On the heels of the afternoon he'd just had, the comforting coziness of the scene both beckoned Lestrade and caused him a pang of loneliness.

"Greg!" John greeted Lestrade cheerfully. His laptop screen was showing a blog entry with one of John's typically flash titles: _The Viridian Claw_.

"Brought you the report." Lestrade waved a file folder in one gloved hand, tugging his scarf loose with the other. Maybe he could stay a little while. He certainly wouldn't be visiting his club tonight. He nodded towards John's laptop. "Should help with that."

"Cheers," John said, accepting the folder.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in the reflection of the glass, but otherwise did not acknowledge him, just continued his wistful melody. Well, it was wistful to Lestrade's ear at the moment, anyway. Sherlock himself looked quite content.

"I like the title," Lestrade nodded at John's blog. "Very…poetic."

"John _does_ like to romanticize," Sherlock murmured, emphasizing the remark with a particularly florid phrase on his violin.

"Sherlock _does_ like to express himself musically," John said drily. "If only he'd stop talking altogether…"

Sherlock played his next few notes with a bit of extra emphasis. His reflection in the glass smirked.

Lestrade shook his head and pointed at John's laptop. "It's not right, though."

"Et tu, Greg?" John sighed.  "Okay, why not?"

"Viridian. That's a bluish green. The marks—look there at the photo—more of a yellowy green." Lestrade pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat. "I'd call it a _chartreuse_."

John frowned at the crime scene photo and raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we the color expert?"

"Sort of, yeah. The ex-wife was always redecorating. I looked at a _lot_ of paint samples," Lestrade said with a shrug. "She always liked having lots of options."

"Obviously," Sherlock snorted over a gliding chord.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

John cleared his throat loudly. "Cuppa, Greg? You look frozen through."

"The marks were _green_."  Sherlock looked over his shoulder and swept a quick look over Lestrade, foot to head. "And Inspector Lestrade has just come from tea."

Lestrade froze, swallowing thickly. Fucking hell. He should have _known_ better than to come here.

"'The _Green_ Claw' doesn't have much of a ring to it," John muttered.

"I had a meeting," Lestrade blurted out defensively.

Sherlock's bow stilled mid-stroke and he turned his full, lingering focus on Lestrade, then stepped forward and _smelled_ him.

"Get off me," Lestrade demanded, taking a hasty, clumsy step back. "I—need to leave."

Sherlock smiled. Smugly. Slyly. As smug as a Holmes. "John."

"Hm?"

Lestrade yanked his gloves back on.

Sherlock pointed at Lestrade's shirt. "The fleck of buttercream." He pointed at Lestrade's mouth. "Black seed in the teeth." He leaned towards Lestrade and inhaled again, short and sharp. "That faint _musty_ scent."

Lestrade wound his scarf around his neck. Oh, God. He should just pull it tighter and tighter until he passed out and then he wouldn't have to hear what Sherlock was going to say. He could just die here, peacefully, in front of the warm fire.

"John, Inspector Lestrade has already had tea."

"Yeah. You said that."

"Inspector Lestrade has already had tea at the _Diogenes Club_. The lemon and poppy seed gateaux are a popular favorite there, are they not?"

" _I had a meeting_ ," Lestrade almost wailed, already knowing it was no use because Sherlock Holmes was a _horrible man_. _All Holmeses were horrible men._

"It was a _weeding hoe_ ," John said, excited.

Sherlock and Lestrade both blinked at him.

"The murder weapon. See? There's the claw."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Weeding hoe. Green marks. It was the florist. Like I said. John, put that down. There's something far more interesting happening now."

John's eyebrows flew up. "More interesting than a murder?"

"Oh, _far_ more interesting," Sherlock leered.

Lestrade put his hand over his face and groaned into it. He added his other hand and groaned into the set of them.

"What are you on about?" John demanded. "So Lestrade had a meeting at the Diogenes. What's so interesting about that?"

"With whom did he have a _meeting_ , John?"

"Mycroft, _obviously_. So what? I've met him there myself."

"For tea?" Sherlock asked pertly.

"Well, no. We just went to the…talking room. And, you know, talked."

Lestrade dropped his hands, incredulous. "There's a room where you can _talk_?"

"Of course there is." John blinked at him. "Why would you have a meeting when you couldn't talk?"

Lestrade sighed heavily and folded his arms. "That's exactly what I've been trying to figure out."

Sherlock raised his violin again and launched into a merry rendition of _Pop Goes the Weasel_.

"Sherlock," Lestrade growled.

"I don't understand. It's still just a meeting. I mean, fine, I never got any _lemon cake_ , but I—" John's mouth fell open. His eyes went round. "Oh!"

"There's no _oh_ ," Lestrade insisted.

Grinning, Sherlock plucked a string on his violin. _Pop_.

"You were on a _date_ ," John breathed.

"It wasn't a _date_."

John burst into laughter, doubling over. " _At the Diogenes Club_."

"You're going to fall out your chair," Lestrade said sourly, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock returned a beatific smile.

"It's going to be worth it," John gasped. "A _date_ at the _Diogenes_. With _Mycroft_."

"Oh, sod it," Lestrade sighed. He pulled off his gloves again and collapsed into John's armchair. "I'm not sure _why_ I was there, okay? He invited me for tea and I…accepted, and then…I'm not sure."

John wiped his eyes. "So what happened?"

" _Nothing_ happened. He read _Le Monde_ and I sat there and ate pastries. And then one of those butlers in booties came and fetched him away. So after, I don't know, about forty minutes I left."

"You waited forty minutes to leave?"

"Good sandwiches," Lestrade mumbled. Then he sighed and admitted, "I thought he'd come back."

John spread his hands, his face warring between mirth and sympathy. "Didn't you know about the whole silence thing?"

"'Course I did, but I thought there must be something _more_ to it, you know. Private club and all that. Maybe _tea_ was some sort of…code word for the secret room at the back. Cabaret or bouncy castle or whatever actually makes a club like that any _fun_."

"Ah," Sherlock said. "I believe I see where you went wrong. My brother does not believe in having _fun_."

Lestrade thought back to the way Mycroft's knee had bobbed along with the music at the club. The laughter that had glimmered in his eyes. He shook his head. "I don't believe that."

"Which suit was he wearing?"

Lestrade wrinkled his nose at Sherlock. "What does that matter?"

"Mycroft color-codes his intent when he dresses."

"What, like…mood suits? I never noticed that."

"Of course you didn't. Windowpane check, he's feeling particularly indolent. The pinstripe is his battle suit. Grey twill, business as usual. Was it the grey twill?"

"It was indigo."

John gave him a look.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. " _Blue_."

Sherlock raised his chin slowly, opening his mouth like he was breathing in some new information. "Interesting," he exhaled.

"Why is that interesting?" John demanded.

"Yeah," echoed Lestrade, leaning forward. "Why?"

"The blue," Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin, "is for social obligations."

" _Obligations_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Occasions."

"Well, which is it?"

"Obligations. Occasions. Is there a difference?"

"There's a bloody _huge_ difference," Lestrade said. " _Was_ I on a date? Or was I getting the brush-off? Oh, God, maybe I was getting _sacked_. Maybe I'm sacked and you're going to have a new handler now."

"John's my handler, remember?" Sherlock sniffed proudly. "I don't need you, anyway."

Ignoring Sherlock, John scooted his desk chair closer to Lestrade. "Sacked? Does he actually pay you?"

"Well, no. I turned down the money. But it _feels_ like a job."

"More of a calling," John smirked, gazing up at Sherlock with far more fondness than Lestrade was feeling for him at the moment. "Greg, I think you may have officially won Worst Date in History. And note that the man awarding it to you has been on dates to the morgue, the inside of a skip, and underneath a houseboat on Regent's Canal."

"I didn't say _date_. It couldn't have been a _date_."

"In fact, I've been on quite a few dates to the morgue. But you still win."

"I think he was telling me to sod off…in some strange, silent Mycroft way that passes for…politeness. _Here, drool on this pastry instead of my fine suit and be on your way, you grubby prole._ "

"You liked the dates to the morgue," Sherlock said with confidence, plucking out a few cheerful notes with his fingers on the violin fret. "Very much."

John eyed him suspiciously. "You're taking this all…surprisingly well, Sherlock. Considering your brother's just been mentioned in the same context as sex."

"I _never_ said _sex_."

"I assure you, John, I am _delighted_ by the current situation." Sherlock was smiling— _beaming—_ past John and Lestrade at the doorway to the sitting room. "Hello, brother dear," he purred.

Lestrade's entire spine went ice cold.

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade chases after Mycroft...for the last time?

"Wait!" Lestrade shouted. He lunged forward and managed to get his hand hooked around Mycroft's elbow before he could reach for the back door of his car. "Just _wait_ , would you?"

The front driver's-side door opened and a shadow rose beside him. Lestrade let go Mycroft's arm at once and nodded a cautious greeting. Up. "Nikolas."

Mycroft's enormous, spiky-haired blond driver stared back at him unflinchingly. Nikolas was a nice bloke. He had collected Lestrade at Mycroft's request on a few past occasions for transport to and from assorted Sherlock-related discussions and interventions. Three kids. Supported Chelsea. Enjoyed baking. Lestrade liked him. Lestrade also had no doubt whatsoever that Nikolas would snap his legs like they were a pair of ice lolly sticks were he called upon to do so.

"Er," Lestrade said. "How's the wife?"

"Sir?" Nikolas rumbled, stone-faced in the pale light of the street lamps that were taking over duty from the setting sun.

Mycroft's expression was just as cold, his posture stiff, as he turned to face Lestrade. He gave Nikolas a brief, dismissive gesture, and Nikolas returned himself to the driver's seat, closing the door behind him.

Baker Street wasn't especially quiet at this time of evening, but suddenly it seemed that way, like the wind was keeping its distance and the cars at the cross street had hushed to a whisper. A watchful quiet. Nikolas was still right there behind the dark tinted window. Sherlock and John _must_ be gawking from the window above. Mycroft was looking at Lestrade, waiting. And this time, Lestrade didn't know what he should say. Still with no clear idea of Mycroft's intentions, he wasn't sure whether he was the wrongfooted party, or whether there even was one in this scenario. Maybe he should just shut his mouth and go home, wallow in beer and takeaway and telly and no more thinking about Mycroft Holmes. He was good at switching himself off, forgetting the day he'd had. It would be so much easier.

He licked his lips. They chilled immediately in the cold air.

"Look, Mycroft, I don't know how much of that you heard, but—"

Mycroft folded his hands delicately over the handle of his umbrella and lifted his chin. "Forgive my hasty departure, Detective Inspector—"

"Again."

"—but having apprehended the efficacy of my demonstration, I saw no reason to linger."

Lestrade opened his mouth. Blinked. "The what of your what?"

"You need fear no recriminations from me. Your reaction to our afternoon appointment was hardly," Mycroft smirked, " _unexpected_."

"Appointment."

"You are welcome to use the term _date_ if it amuses you."

" _Amuses_ me?" This, _this_ , was why Lestrade needed a _plan_ if he was going into any conversation with Mycroft. If he didn't have a plan he was just left scrambling after the conversation, like a dog chasing a bee, biting at empty air.

"Your reaction is in fact precisely as I anticipated, and the reason I thought it best to have this…meeting sooner rather than later. We are now, as they say, even, with any mutual curiosity laid to rest."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your _La Granada_ and the Diogenes. Surely you see the parallels."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips, widened his stance, like it might help him hold his ground. "I can't say I do, no."

"You allowed me a brief view of your personal life. Your social habitat."

"You make me sound like a bloody zoo animal. And I didn't _allow_ any _view_! You just _walked in_."

"My visit, however, seems to have inspired some…confusion."

Hell with it. Lestrade went ahead and growled. "That, I can't argue with."

"And in light of the… _curiosity_ you expressed towards me, I thought it best to return the favor. Best get it over with quickly and thoroughly. And now I have allowed you a brief view of my own personal life in return."

"A silent room full of unhappy old men."

"As I said, a demonstration," Mycroft sniffed. "In seeing the parallels, you must also see the divergence. Your interest will have, I trust, abated. The meeting served its purpose."

"So…you _were_ trying to put me off." Bees. They looked so tempting, all colorful and buzzy, and then they just stung you in the face. "You could have just told me."

"I had no need to _try_ to _put you off_ ," Mycroft said. His voice was soft, mocking. "You are perfectly capable of drawing your own conclusions based on evidence presented. I do recognize that ability in you, Inspector."

"Cheers for that," Lestrade muttered drily. If Mycroft's tone hadn't been so patronizing, he actually would have been thrilled to hear a comment like that. It was far more than he ever got from Sherlock for his troubles.

"Rest assured I continue to think you eminently suitable as a liaison with my brother. I hope you will not be deterred from that charge now that this matter between us is settled."

"Settled."

"Amicably, I hope. I…regret any discomfort this exchange may have caused." Mycroft's lips pressed together. He hesitated, then offered Lestrade his gloved hand with a look so pained he might as well have been readying himself to grasp a hot coal.

Lestrade's own hand was exposed, cold, his gloves still in 221B. He looked at the smooth leather of Mycroft's glove for a long moment before he took his hand and said, "Bollocks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It takes me a bit longer, sometimes, catching you up," Lestrade mused, squeezing Mycroft's hand a little more tightly. "I realize that. But I think I've got it. I think what you just said was…that you invited me to that place so that _I'd_ tell _you_ to sod off."

"That is not—"

"Yeah. It is." Lestrade said, firming his voice. "And I'm not going to do that."

It would be so much easier to just go home. Just let it go. What was he doing? Lestrade still didn't know what he was meant to say, and all he was doing was chasing a mouthful of sting.

But he wanted it.

"But if you are, Mycroft, if that's what you want, there's just one thing I'd like you to consider, first."

"And that is?"

Lestrade dropped his gaze. Mycroft's tie. Blue. Tiny, subtle white checks and flowers with teal dot centers. Windsor knot slightly askew. Lestrade stepped in. Mycroft stepped back, but Lestrade had his hand to keep him close. Lestrade stepped in again and turned his face up, tilting his head. He pressed his mouth to Mycroft's and kissed him, simple and soft.

Mycroft's heel slipped backwards off the edge of the pavement, his hips bumped his car door, and he exhaled a hot breath against Lestrade's lips.

Lestrade kissed him again, open-mouthed and sweet, just a taste given and a taste received. Like a bite of lemon cake at tea.

"Just…consider that," Lestrade whispered. "Would you?"

He couldn't look Mycroft in the eye when he pulled back, not after _that_ , so he just turned away and headed off blindly in whatever direction he was pointing. He tucked his cold hands into his pockets and walked, fast, trying to breathe. His mouth felt like it was buzzing.

 

***

 

Nothing happened.

Lestrade went home. He marveled that Nikolas hadn't leapt out of the car and choked him to death. He marveled that he hadn't heard Sherlock's or John's howls of terror or laughter from the street. He stared at his mobile. He took a very long shower. He waited a long time to take a drink or eat again, fancying he would somehow erase the kiss if anything else touched his tongue. He fell asleep on his sofa.

He went to work the next day. And the next. And the next.

People continued to hurt each other. A man was stabbed in Islington. Two children abducted in Notting Hill. The naked body of a elderly woman bobbed up in Regent's Canal. All straightforward cases, with Lestrade relieved for a change that he didn't have to call Sherlock.

Lestrade watched television, scoffed at crime procedurals, got some answers right and some answers wrong playing along with quiz shows. He joked with Donovan and chatted football with Brown and Montgomery. Traded paperwork with Dimmock. He went back to his club and had a pint and listened to laughter and music. He went home and went to sleep.

He went to work again. He gave a press briefing on the Camden arson incidents. He had chips and an enormous coffee for lunch.

It was raining when Lestrade finally left New Scotland Yard for the evening, and he almost didn't see it through the grey: Mycroft Holmes's black car waiting on the street.

As Lestrade stood there, staring, listening to the static patter of water hitting his umbrella, Nikolas got out of the car and opened his own cheerfully yellow umbrella. He walked over to Lestrade and offered him an envelope.

Lestrade looked at it. Looked at Nikolas. "What's that?"

"Mr. Holmes requests the honor of your company this evening."

"What for?"

Nikolas held the envelope up a bit higher.

Lestrade sighed and took it. He opened the cream-colored stationery. The note inside was neither addressed nor signed. _The honour of your company is requested for the evening._ Lestrade snorted as he read, but then raised his eyebrows at the next line. _This is a social occasion_.

Nikolas was watching him closely.

"He in there?" Lestrade flicked his eyes toward the car.

"Mr. Holmes is waiting at your destination."

"Maybe I'm not free."

"He says that you are."

Lestrade let out a breath of laughter.  _This is a social occasion_.

"Sir, as you know, I am quite fond of Mr. Holmes," Nikolas said with an intent look.

"You probably noticed…so am I."

"Mr. Holmes has gone to some trouble for this evening."

_This is a social occasion_. Lestrade's heart began to pound. "Then I guess I'd better come with you."

 

***

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade meets Mycroft for a "social occasion," and sometimes even the British Government gets the blues.

With the recent experience at Diogenes Club still in his mind, Lestrade was expecting an extremely short drive from New Scotland Yard to St. James's, but instead Nikolas took him east across the Thames and back again, heading for North London. Normally they would have chatted sport, but Lestrade was a ball of nervous energy, clenching and unclenching his clammy-palmed hands in his lap, and he couldn't think of a thing to say. Nikolas, judging by his own silence and solicitous glances at Lestrade in the rear view mirror, seemed to understand.

The car finally stopped on a side street in Camden Town lined with low, red-brick buildings, colorful awnings, and even more colorfully-outfitted pedestrians.

"We're here, sir."

Lestrade peered out of his tinted window and said, "Huh?"

It was not a _Mycroft_ sort of place.

A passing group of boisterous twenty-somethings spared the car curious glances. With evening falling, the shops were shutting down and the pubs and clubs and restaurants coming to life.

"The blue door, there," Nikolas pointed. "Basement level. You're expected."

Lestrade glanced at the door. Royal blue. Brass hardware. Unmarked. Sort of like the secret government version of a TARDIS. "You're…sure?"

"Quite sure, sir," Nikolas said patiently.

"Not going in there to be discreetly done away with or anything, am I?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir." Nikolas shrugged. "But then he doesn't tell me everything."

"Will I by any chance be traveling through time?"

"Well, sir, if anyone could make that happen…" Nikolas raised his eyebrows at Lestrade in the mirror.

Lestrade chuckled. "Right. No spoilers. But any…advice?"

Nikolas's look turned thoughtful. Finally he offered, simply, "Listen."

"Listen."

"And try to have a pleasant evening, sir." Nikolas smiled benignly. "Unless you're about to be discreetly done away with, that is."

Lestrade snorted as he exited the car and thought it was fairly likely he would be done away with, one way or the other, by whatever Mycroft had in store for him tonight. Damn it. He wished he'd had a chance to shower. Change his clothes. Brush his teeth. For Christ's sake, what was it he had for lunch…? Tuna salad? Okay. Could be far worse, but he still felt far too _himself_ to be going to a social occasion with Mycroft Holmes.

Well, whatever the evening had in store, Mycroft had gone to some trouble, so grubby and tuna-scented or not, Lestrade was going to do his best to give as much trouble back as he could.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

 

***

 

The club was called Veritas. Mycroft knew it wasn't the sort of place anyone would expect to find him, a basement blues club, but that was one of the things that so appealed to him about the venue.

It was a large space with an intimate ambiance, a delightful surprise that served the dual purpose of offering a sense of discovery—he hoped—for Lestrade while putting Mycroft on more advantageous territory, simply due to its unexpected nature, than he had found himself during their last several encounters. He loved the decor, the juxtaposition of what one might expect from a blues club—soft, smoky lighting, brick walls, black and white photos of Etta James, B.B. King, Billie Holiday—with a unique, classic elegance—bronze and marble statuettes of Roman gods and goddesses reaching, striving toward the silvery embossed ceiling tiles. One statue in particular caught Mycroft's eye, reminding him of curiously of Lestrade: Vulcan, gripping the shaft of his hammer in one powerful fist. Something about the forearms, perhaps.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder at the entryway to the club for what seemed like the hundredth time since he had seated himself to await Lestrade's arrival. Perhaps he had arrived a _bit_ early, but he needed to ensure that the musicians and staff were properly settled in. He had brought his personal chef in to staff the kitchen. He had briefed the bartender on Lestrade's preferred drinks. Even more importantly he needed to allow time for his own nervous perspiration to cease. The serviette he had procured for the sole purpose of worrying was a damp, twisted ball in his lap.

He had spent considerable time perfecting the set list for the evening, selecting favorites from his personal collection at home and listening attentively to the band's renditions of each. They were a remarkable ensemble, talented and enthusiastic about performing, even for such an unlikely client as himself. He knew their names now: Lisa Z, with her low, earthy growl of a voice; Jackson on drums; Shivering Ricky on bass; Abejide, who always wore a red felt hat, on guitar; and Samantha, keyboards and apparently any other instrument she chanced to pick up. He had listened to his music in the privacy of his own home for so long that he felt almost overcome the first time they performed one of his selections.

Clearly the room had fine acoustics. He might hear a whisper as well as any chord.

_Consider that, would you?_

Even now desire rolled low in his belly at the thought of Lestrade's kiss, and lower still at the thought that there could be _more_. At the memory of Lestrade's hand at his waist, a pressure he could barely feel through his layers of winter clothing, but had wanted to lean into like a dog against the legs of its master. It had been so very long since he had felt a touch like that. He wasn't sure he could bear it.

It had been Preston, a broad-shouldered, raven-haired boy who fancied himself quite the contemporary Wildean dandy, who had introduced Mycroft to blues music at university. He took Mycroft to grubby little bars where the music felt like longing and they could discreetly put their hands on each other under the tables. _You'll love it darling,_ Preston had laughed, _because you're such a mopey little fuck._ The affair hadn't lasted _, because you're such a mopey little fuck,_ Preston had smirked as he closed the door behind him. Mycroft had continued to mope and continued to long and he had continued to appreciate the blues even more deeply.

Mycroft had almost come to terms with the shame of the way he was allowing himself to feel over Lestrade. He _knew_ better now, he _knew_ the hope of having his feelings returned in kind was what had led him so terribly astray in the past. He was not the same besotted fool _hoping_ in the Paris rain at eighteen or in an Oxford blues bar at twenty or in an opulent Brussels hotel room at twenty-three. Each pathetic attempt at connection had seared a dark line across his heart as a reminder. He should no longer be so _naive_ as to believe in such a thing as romantic love, yet here he was, gone starry-eyed over the very possibility.

The difference this time would be in how Mycroft behaved. It was one thing to hope. It was another thing entirely to display one's hope like a target. He would proceed with caution.

Mycroft took a slow draw of the sweet, smoky, single malt in his glass, and checked over his shoulder again. And his heart jumped into the hollow of his throat.

He was _here_.

Lestrade was here at last, just walking in from the street level, looking warm-eyed and silvery and rumpled round the edges and so very _Lestrade_ that Mycroft's emotions trembled at the edge of their carefully-constructed dam.

Mycroft schooled his expression to calmness as he rose and said, at last, " _Gregory_."

He had been practicing the warm yet offhand tone in which he would first speak Lestrade's given name for days, and the quick intake of breath with which Lestrade responded was vastly rewarding.

"Mycroft." Lestrade stopped in the middle of the floor and bobbed at him awkwardly, something halfway between a nod and a bow that made him look like he'd experienced an extremely brief loss of consciousness but managed to stay on his feet.

It was completely, ridiculously endearing.

"Thank you for joining me," Mycroft said.

"Thanks for inviting me." Lestrade stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and grinned tentatively. "Or…you know, half-inviting, half-abducting me."

"There _was_ an invitation card."

"Yes! It was very…nice paper," Lestrade offered, and then cringed. Was it possible the man who had kissed Mycroft so expertly in Baker Street was anywhere near as nervous about this evening as Mycroft himself? Lestrade ducked his head, rubbed his nose with one finger, and threw a quick look around the club. His forehead wrinkled quizzically. "So, what have you invited me _to_ , exactly?"

It was as good a cue as he'd get. Mycroft gave a subtle nod to his musicians on stage.

Ricky nodded back and interjected a specific riff into the low-key freestyle the band was playing to cue the others. Samantha sat herself at the piano and Abejide gave her a wink before they eased into a slow melody.

"I hope you don't consider a private venue presumptuous at this point in our…discussions," Mycroft sneaked a quick glance at the curve of Lestrade's jaw, "but I thought it more conducive to conversation than a more exuberant nightclub, so I've leased the establishment for the evening."

Lisa stepped up to the microphone, closed her eyes, and began to sing, low and sultry.

_They call it Stormy Monday. But Tuesday's just as bad._

Lestrade nodded, eyebrows rising slowly. "This is definitely…conducive."

Mycroft motioned Lestrade toward the curved red leather bench at the booth he'd selected for the two of them to share. The best in the house, as it was said. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Do you…come here often?" Lestrade shrugged out of his trench coat and draped it over a nearby empty chair, and Mycroft thought he might have seen another cringe on Lestrade's face as he turned it away.

Mycroft frowned. Was he being too obvious already? He slid into the booth after Lestrade had situated himself, maintaining a respectful distance between them, and cooled his tone slightly. "I have verified the appropriate standards would be met for my patronage. The bar is fully stocked, of course." He twitched a finger for the bartender's attention. "And if you would care for a meal, the chef is awaiting your order. I highly recommend the shrimp fra diavolo. And the musicians, as you can hear for yourself, competent."

"They're incredible. You…must have gone to some trouble. All this."

"No trouble at all."

Lestrade looked around again, eyes lingering for the space of a curious breath on the sculpture of Vulcan. "Because for just a moment I thought you might be trying to impress me."

Mycroft tensed. "This is simply how I live."

"Oh." Lestrade gave Mycroft an odd look. "Well. I would never have taken you for a blues man."

"I have an appreciation for many musical forms," Mycroft said, carefully neutral, carefully casual. He crossed his legs and took a sip of his scotch. "The style of blues we are hearing, for example, has a definite structure. A rigidity that still allows for improvisation, which is a concept I can appreciate on many levels. Yet, contextually speaking, the subject matter is absolute: the blues are about the truth."

_I want a Sunday kind of love, a love to last past Saturday night.  
And I_ _’d like to know it’s more than love at first sight._

"And the truth is another concept you appreciate?"

Mycroft allowed himself a half smile. "In theory."

"Shows what I know, then," Lestrade chuckled, "I always just thought the blues were about, you know, feeling blue. And being lonely."

"I'm not lonely," Mycroft said quickly. And a little too sharply.

Lestrade blinked. "Okay."

_Can_ _’t seem to find somebody, someone to care, and  
I’m on a lonely road that leads to nowhere. I need a Sunday kind of love._

Glass _clinked_ on wood as the bartender set Lestrade's drink down.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Well," Lestrade cleared his throat, too, then flicked a cautiously playful glance at Mycroft. "So it's not all tea and silence, then."

Mycroft lifted his glass, stared at the blue circle of light reflected around the rim. The folly of his afternoon with Lestrade at the Diogenes Club had weighed on Mycroft's mind, and he had anticipated the need to address the matter this evening. He had prepared a mental flowchart of how he might guide the conversation to put a more positive spin on the debacle. "While the picture I presented to you of myself at the Diogenes Club was not inaccurate, it _was_ _…_ incomplete," he said softly. "I wish to remedy that."

Lestrade's smile widened. "I'd like that. I really would. I'd love," his eyes twinkled as they raked Mycroft's body, "to see much more of you."

"I believe that—oh." Mycroft's face heated as he caught Lestrade's meaning and he instinctively, _stupidly_ , pushed himself a few inches away from Lestrade. Lascivious suggestions were not in his flowchart.

Onstage, Lisa leaned back against the piano. Her dark eyes were twinkling in the stage lights, too, very like Lestrade's.

_If you want something to play with, go and find yourself a toy. Baby, my time is too expensive, and I'm not a little boy._  
_If you are serious don't play with my heart.  
_

It was not that Mycroft doubted the sincerity of Lestrade's interest, however misguided, in the moment. But it was easy to be sincere in the moment. That was how all great liars operated, and the most pernicious of liars were the ones who were lying to themselves. Mycroft had used the principle to his advantage on many occasions since he had learned its lesson. He, too, would be lying if he claimed he had not considered simply playing into the fantasy Lestrade seemed to be entertaining. He knew very well he could be fucked without being loved, and at least it would be _something_. He could lie to himself about it then and they could carry on for some time that way, all the happy liars. But that was not what he wanted with Lestrade. Not at all.

But, oh, how Mycroft wanted Lestrade. How he wanted to touch him, how he wanted to tell him, yes, he'd made him a _play list_ because he was a ridiculous man, besotted as a teenager, biting his lip when he thought of dark-lashed brown eyes and blunt-tipped fingers and the rasp of an unshaven chin.

His plan had not been to slide _away_ from Lestrade.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade's cheeky grin had fallen into a look of concern. "Sorry if…look, to be completely honest, I'm…suddenly not sure if I'm meant to be flirting with you here or not. I mean, I thought…yes. But maybe…no?"

_Bugger_. Mycroft swallowed thickly, hiding the moment it took him to gather his own composure in a gulp of scotch. He took a deep breath. "Gregory, I do not deny my attraction to you."

"Oh. You…really?" Lestrade glanced down at the now increased space between them on the leather seat.

"And I do not deny that, when analyzing that attraction in combination with the relative ease of our social interaction and the high degree of respect I feel for you in both a personal and professional capacity, I considered acquiescing to a liaison."

"Considered. Past tense."

"You asked me to _consider_ ," Mycroft said roughly. "You asked…effectively. And I did consider it." He raised his eyes to Lestrade's. "I have considered little else in the moments I could faithfully call my own since we parted."

Lestrade leaned in, eyes darkening. "Mycroft. God, I want—"

"Please." Mycroft held up his hand.

"Sorry." Lestrade blew out a breath and leaned back.

_Tear a star from out of the sky and the sky feels blue, tear a petal from a rose and the rose weeps too. C'mon and take your heart away from mine and mine will surely break. My life is yours to make, so please keep the spark awake._

Mycroft fixed his eyes on the stage. The guitarist's shoes blurred in his vision. "Gregory, there are things you cannot understand. There are things I _cannot say_. You may wish to see _more of me_ , but _this_ is what I am." Mycroft gestured down his body. His throat was tightening in long-forgotten panic, standing in the rain in Paris, looking at the back of a closed door in Oxford. He couldn't do this. The door he was trying to open to Lestrade squealed on its hinges. "There is nothing more to see. I am always in a suit."

Lestrade's eyes had gone wide. "Mycroft, I don't unders—"

"Excuse me," Mycroft pushed himself out of the booth, knocking his hip on the edge of the table. He was always fleeing Lestrade, wasn't he? He was a threat, and Mycroft had known it from the start, and Mycroft was a fool. "I'll go check on dinner," he said, and bolted toward the friendly shadows at back of the club.

_Bugger_.

Well, that would be that.

_Turn your lamp down low. Turn your lamp down low._  
_I beg you all night long, baby, please don't go._

***

 

Lestrade stared after Mycroft until he disappeared into the loo. Then he stared at the table for a few moments. Then he drained his whiskey in four long, burning swallows and said, "Okay."

Desperate times, desperate measures. Lestrade pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sent a text.

_What does a hunter green donegal tweed suit mean?_

The reply came almost immediately, and Lestrade could practically hear the eye roll that he knew had been sent along with it.

_Oh, for God's sake. -SH_

_Help me out here, Sherlock. Your brother is confusing as fuck all._

_Clearly the foundation for a promising relationship. -SH_

_Sherlock. Please._

This time, Lestrade could practically hear the sigh.

_Your observational skills are as flawed as ever. Mycroft doesn't own a green Donegal tweed suit. -SH_

_Well, clearly he does._

_No. Send a photo. -SH_

_Can't. He's in the loo._

_Then take a photo there. -SH_

_It's not that sort of date, Sherlock. Look. I know hunter green. And I know donegal tweed. I've been paying more attention to suits lately for no particular reason, ok?_

_John says you're a pathetic excuse for a man. -SH_

_No he doesn't you arse just tell me what he sodddig suit means!_

_It means Mycroft is wearing a brand new suit. -SH_

_What might we deduce from that? -SH_

Lestrade frowned at his phone.

Onstage, the singer had finished her song and the guitarist and bass player were filling in with some music while she drank from a bottle of water, eyeing Lestrade speculatively.

Lestrade shifted in his seat and nodded.

The singer was a petite woman, and when she'd first stepped up to the microphone Lestrade had been surprised to hear such a powerful voice. But there it was, not in her frame but in her eyes. Her dark brows drew down and she muttered something behind her hand to the bass player, who smirked and nodded as she took the mic again, half-speaking, half-singing in a throaty rasp.

_I'm talking to all the lovers in the house tonight._  
_Now listen, you know I want you to find out what's wrong and get it right, or you should leave love alone. Because the love you save, it might be your own._

_Now, listen_.

A picture of Sherlock, twirling around 221B in his dressing gown, violin tucked under his chin, flashed in Lestrade's mind.

Expressing himself through music.

_Pop, goes the weasel._

"Oh." _Listen_ , Nikolas had told him. Lestrade twisted in his seat, looked toward the back of the club, and huffed an amazed laugh, "Oh, you _bastard_."

 

***

 

"You didn't request dinner," Mycroft said when he returned to their table. He hovered at the side of the leather settee, looking miserably defeated.

"Nope." Lestrade looked up and shook his head. "And definitely not from the gents."

"May I offer my apologies for…the evening." Mycroft sighed. "At least you have a story for second-worst date."

It was perhaps a little bit wrong of him to feel so smug right now, Lestrade thought. But, sod it, he'd figured out something. Something clever. Something about Mycroft Holmes. Clearly he was the greatest detective in the world, and the other bloke he knew who liked to lay claim to that title was smug all the time, so why the hell not. "So it is a date."

"I'm not entirely certain the present tense is appropriate."

_If I can make you only understand. Treat me right and love me, then I will be your man. Your one and only man._

And ego burst aside, Lestrade had something else to feel good about. Something to feel _incredible_ about. Something like Mycroft Holmes, who may not be able to tell Lestrade how he felt, but whose song selections cried his sentiment out to fill the four corners of the room. Lestrade was vibrating with it. "Mycroft…will you please sit?"

Mycroft frowned, but he folded himself onto the seat, perching stiffly at the far edge of the curved bench.

"I'm sorry." Lestrade slid closer, ignoring the way Mycroft stiffened. "I got it wrong. About the Diogenes. You weren't trying to get rid of me."

Mycroft shot him a surprised look, but averted his eyes again just as quickly. "That was my expectation."

"But not what you were trying to do."

Mycroft's face contorted miserably. "No."

"Mycroft, those things you think I can't understand…?"

Mycroft shook his head tightly.

"If any of those things happen include what it feels like to believe you're unloved, or what it feels like to be cheated on, or what it feels like to be afraid, or _unhappy_ , or any of the things these lyrics _you picked and don't deny it you arrange everything_ , then you need to do a little more listening yourself." Lestrade looked down at his hand, flat on the table next to Mycroft's. He slid closer, across the red leather, until his hip was touching Mycroft's, and then he took his hand. "And if you want to listen to the blues just because they're bloody _sad_ , that's fine with me."

"Gregory," Mycroft whispered. "What are you doing?"

"Hoping this date is still in the present tense. Because I, said date, would like to listen to some music with you. And flirt with you. Oh, and I'd love to try that shrimp fra diavolo. And after that's all over with, I'd still very much, if you'd be interested, like to see...a _lot_ more of you." Lestrade squeezed Mycroft's hand and dropped his voice. "How does that sound?"

_Even good can be better. Here's my love on a silver platter, take it all.  
Baby, let me be good to you_

Mycroft's eyes rose to Lestrade's slowly. He licked his lips, then nodded and said, "The acoustics in this room are excellent."

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the songs from Mycroft's Greg-Wantin' play list:  
> [Call It Stormy Monday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVR8lg1YLuc)  
> [A Sunday Kind of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjiBj014t7g)  
> [Tell It Like It Is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQbjaSTMokM)  
> [Don't Take Your Love From Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cy85Ezi1G54)  
> [Baby Please Don't Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EOwNItKOyo)  
> [The Love You Save May Be Your Own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iF4rgo7UZGI)  
> [Your One and Only Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICdHR3MckzQ)  
> [Let Me Be Good to You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEHawXT2ps8)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Mycroft's "social occasion" gets a _lot_ more social.

The band played them out with ZZ Top's _Sharp Dressed Man_ and shouts of encouragement worthy of the clientele of La Granada. Mycroft blushed red as a pomegranate but kept his hand pressed flat and firm against the center of Lestrade's back as they walked to the door. Lestrade sent the stage a parting wave and an unabashed laugh, wondering with an almost absurdly protective fondness if Mycroft even understood the joke of the song choice or if the band's enthusiasm alone was enough to fluster him.

As soon as he and Mycroft were alone in the stairwell, Lestrade tugged Mycroft's coat sleeve until their shoulders bumped and Mycroft made a soft sound of satisfaction. Lestrade grinned ridiculously down at his shoes as they ascended the stairs.

Nikolas already had the privacy screen up in Mycroft's car. Lestrade might have spared the driver an appreciative thought had he not been so busy abandoning all pretense of dignity and trying to pull Mycroft right into his lap before the car had even pulled away from the curb. By the time the car rounded its first corner, the two of them were an awkward, eager tangle of legs and shoes and heavy coats. They shifted together on the leather seat with the car's turns, trading tomato garlic whiskey kisses to the sound of the engine's low hum. The passing city cast rain-streaked, stained-glass reflections across interior windows that were quickly fogged with _yes_. When the wheels hit a rough patch of road, their noses bumped, and they grunted and laughed into each other's mouths, and Lestrade thought again: _yes._

"Gregory," Mycroft breathed, making a markedly half-hearted effort at staying Lestrade's roaming hands, "you will have me disgrace myself in my official government-provided transport."

"I would very much enjoy that." Lestrade laughed huskily into Mycroft's stiff shirt collar, then blinked. "I think we've stopped."

Mycroft wriggled to an upright position and rubbed a clear patch in the window fog with his coat sleeve. "We're here."

Lestrade leaned across Mycroft to have a look, but all he could see was the front of a set of entrance doors, tall and imposing, flanked by a pair of chest-high wrought iron lanterns. They seemed to be underneath a private, covered portico.

"Huh," said Lestrade. It hadn't occurred to him that nobody had mentioned where they were actually going.

Mycroft paused, one hand reaching for the handle of the car door. "Is there something wrong?"

"This is…your home, isn't it?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed gently. "Of course."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay."

"Gregory, where did you think—"

"It's fine. I don't know. I just…" Lestrade reached out to smooth Mycroft's hair into some semblance of order and shook his head, shrugging, smiling. "I wasn't thinking at all."

Mycroft's frown was uncertain. "Is this not—"

"It's good. It's very, _very_ good." Lestrade took a deep breath and caught Mycroft's gaze. And held it. "Yeah?"

Mycroft stilled.

Lestrade felt the stomp and roll of Spanish guitar in his chest and the heat of Mississippi blues across his skin. The look they exchanged was the same look passed between couples, young and old, over the centuries and across all manner of thresholds. The wide-eyed, lust-darkened, terrified-yet-hopeful look that asked, as if it weren't already a done deal, _are we really going to_ _…?_ And this time, this place, it happened to be between a rumply London DI and the man who ran the British government, two middle-aged men who had just been making out like teenagers in the back seat of a car. In this, they were like everyone else. They were connected to the world.

But right now Lestrade was in strong favor of being explicitly connected to Mycroft. The world could go sod itself.

"Most emphatically and _urgently_ yes," Mycroft said gravely.

They all but tumbled out of the car into the cold, rain-misted night air. Mycroft showed his hand to some sort of high-tech scanning device at the entryway, and the big doors opened onto warmth and wood paneling and vaulted ceilings. Inside, Lestrade's eyes rounded as he took in a gleaming suit of armor and—were there _statues of horses_ in that room? And then _whatever_ , because Mycroft's hands were on Lestrade's shoulders and then Lestrade's back hit a wall and Lestrade's breath was gone and Mycroft was kissing every other thought out of him.

"Nng," Lestrade grunted, and fumbled to get his hands inside Mycroft's coat.

"Gregory," Mycroft said thickly between two kisses. _His_ hands were inside _Lestrade's_ coat, hot at his waist through the thin cotton of Lestrade's shirt. "You should know."

"Nnh?" Lestrade mumbled. The tip of Mycroft's nose was pressed just under his ear and how was that so completely sexy? And how did all these fucking little waistcoat buttons work? Lestrade's fingers used to be able to open buttons, he recalled it distinctly. He growled his frustration against Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft's hips bucked. "You should know," he repeated a bit more breathily.

Sod the waistcoat. Lestrade palmed the front of Mycroft's trousers.

"Fuck," Mycroft gasped.

Lestrade pressed a kiss to Mycroft's jaw, rubbed the heel of his hand over the stiffness at Mycroft's groin, then opened his mouth and let his teeth graze skin. "I like your suit," he whispered.

"It's tweed," Mycroft offered in a strangled voice.

"I'm going to make you come in it."

Mycroft made a pained noise and caught Lestrade by the back of the neck. "You should _know_. I _will_ learn the way you like to be touched and I will apply the full force of my _considerable_ intellectual abilities and whatever physical abilities I possess to your frequent, extended pleasure."

"Oh, my God," Lestrade groaned.

"But for tonight…" Mycroft's hands moved to undo Lestrade's belt buckle, and the leather snapped when Mycroft jerked the belt free. "I hope this will suffice." Mycroft dropped to his knees and the back of Lestrade inhaled so hard the back of his head knocked against the wall.

As it happened, it wasn't Mycroft who came in his suit. It was Lestrade who came _on_ Mycroft's suit, or at least partly on the lapel of his suit, partly on his tie, and partly on his chin.

Lestrade had started the day under a cloudy dawn sky. He'd taken care of some paperwork. He had a tuna sandwich for lunch. And now his thighs were shaking and Mycroft Holmes had taken him _in his mouth_ and the _tip of Mycroft's nose_ had dragged down Lestrade's cock and Lestrade had gone off like a fire hose. And those _were_ horses in the room at the far end of the hall and _was this really happening?_

Mycroft looked up at him, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, then."

"Yeah," Lestrade gasped, wiping a smear off Mycroft's jaw with his thumb. "Sorry. Okay. I am _so_ going to make that up to you," he said, and pushed Mycroft over onto his back on the hallway rug so he could straddle his thighs. His fingers might not remember waistcoat buttons, but they remembered how to unzip trousers. And they remembered how to stroke a man off hard and fast.

He hoped those horses enjoyed the show when their master arched up with a shout that echoed off the high ceilings.

 

***

 

Mycroft hesitated in his dressing room, a towel wrapped around his waist and his skin still damp from his quick shower. He was glad for this moment alone to collect his thoughts. He felt spent in the most delicious way, his skin still sensitive  from Lestrade's hands on him. The entire evening seemed surreal, and the fact that Gregory Lestrade would be sharing his bed this night was perhaps the most surreal element of all.

No. The _most_ surreal element of all had been his own behavior. He had simply…let go. Ceded control to his own desire. One of the most powerful and _coldest_ men in Britain, and he had literally fallen at Lestrade's feet in his eagerness to gratify.

Yet he was still himself. He stared at his reflection in his full-length mirror. A man of no particular handsomeness. Tall, pale, freckled, hairy where he wanted to be smooth and smooth where he wanted hair, with a soft marshmallow of a stomach that persisted no matter how lean his limbs. But his movements had grace and economy. His eyes were sharp. To Mycroft's great surprise, he did not feel ashamed of himself. Nor did he feel trepidatious, even knowing the perils that lay ahead.

This was the time to be wary. Next came the clean-up phase, after all, the inevitable aftermath of a sexual encounter: both parties withdrew, tended to their own needs, re-established their boundaries and distance. _It's been lovely, Mycroft, really, but_ _…_.

_It's raining so hard, looks like it's going to rain all night  
And this is the time, I'd love to be holding you tight_

Mycroft huffed a startled laugh at the soulful sound of Irma Thomas's voice, tilting his head to listen for a moment before he pulled on a pair of pyjamas and wrapped himself in his dressing gown.

When Mycroft walked back into the bedroom, Lestrade was perched on the edge of the mattress in Mycroft's borrowed boxer shorts and white vest, eyeing the bed with a concerned expression. He looked up as Mycroft padded across the rug and confessed a little sheepishly, "I didn't know which side to take."

Lestrade looked decidedly _dishy_ in his clothing, Mycroft decided. Even in his underwear. _Particularly_ in his underwear. Probably he would look most attractive out of his clothing altogether. Mycroft had missed that view in his haste to orgasm, which _was_ a terrible shame. And it had seemed only polite to offer Lestrade the privacy of one of the guest bathrooms afterward—another missed opportunity. An aspiration then, for the very near future: Naked Lestrade. "I typically sleep in the middle," Mycroft said absently.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Lestrade chuckled, running a hand over the duvet, fingers stretching toward the center of the bed.

Mycroft found himself echoing the gesture, running his own hand down the silky sleeve of his dressing gown. "I am open to…experimentation on the matter."

"Music to my ears," Lestrade said with a playful smile. He nodded in the direction of Mycroft's sound system where the turntable was spinning, lit by a small blue LED. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"I thought it would be," Lestrade shrugged, "nice."

_I need someone's hand to lead me through the night  
I need someone's arms to hold and squeeze me tight_

"It is," Mycroft said softly. "Very nice."

"Did I pick a good one?"

"I think that's for you to decide."

Lestrade's eyes met Mycroft's, warm in the softly-lit room. He smiled as he climbed into bed—the left side. "Just for the record, I am currently feeling in no way _blue_."

Mycroft shrugged out of his dressing gown and took the right side, pulling the duvet up after him. He reached over and turned off his bedside lamp. "I've been meaning to correct you on that point."

Lestrade wriggled across the mattress to tuck himself against Mycroft's side, sliding an arm across his chest. "By all means, correct me."

"This music is not, in spite of the name, about feeling sad. Or disconnected." Mycroft ran his hand over Lestrade's bare arm. "It's simply about feeling."

_Tonight I hold to nothing but the feelings in my soul  
My heart overflows with emotions I just can't control_

"And I'm not very good at it," Mycroft admitted quietly. "There will be times I struggle."

Lestrade stirred beside him, his arm tightening around Mycroft's body. Mycroft expected a teasing response to his admittance, but what Lestrade said, equally quietly in the safety of semi-darkness, was, "I've always been intimidated by you."

"Yes."

Lestrade's laughter was soft. "Glad to hear it's that obvious."

"I am simply acknowledging my natural expertise at being off-putting," Mycroft said drily, "although admittedly more often that not it works to my advantage. But, Gregory, my longest relationship lasted exactly one hundred and eleven days, during which time my…companion spent the majority of his nights elsewhere and showed little open affection. And now…you. Please believe me when I say I am the one who is intimidated."

"No, it's just I know I'm not…" Lestrade removed his hand from Mycroft's chest and waved it at the room, " _this_. Power and posh and priceless rugs and bloody _horses_ in the…dining room or whatever that room is."

Mycroft frowned. "You find the decor ostentatious?"

"Mycroft, you got me off next to a full suit of plate mail armor. This place is like a castle."

"Oh."

"Makes you king, though, doesn't it?" Lestrade murmured into Mycroft's shoulder, flashing his cheeky grin.

"You make an excellent point." Mycroft made himself haughty, lifting his chin and peering coolly down his nose at Lestrade. "Mind you do not drool upon my finery, grubby prole."

"Oh, fuck me," Lestrade groaned. "I was really hoping you hadn't overheard that bit."

"Although if I am to be king, technically you should be a grubby _serf_."

"Mycroft, is this you trying to de-intimidate me?"

Mycroft nudged his nose into Lestrade's hair and murmured, "Is it working?"

"You're _flirting_ with me. In _bed_. There's nothing about that not working for me." Lestrade dipped two fingers into the vee of Mycroft's pyjama top, rubbing little circles in the hair on his chest. "I'm just saying…we're very…different. I get that. And, yeah, it's a bit scary."

Mycroft sighed and shut his eyes. He knew they would feel like sandpaper tomorrow. His lids were growing heavier by the moment, but he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to let this night go. He didn't want to think about things that were _a bit scary_.

_Let me be yours until tomorrow_  
_Give me one night of your life_  
_So that I can go on_

"But then there's something else to consider," Lestrade went on. "Something important."

"And that is?"

"I heard you say _fuck_."

Mycroft's eyes blinked open. "What?"

"Before. When we…you know."

"Were fucking?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"See, there, you've done it again. I, Greg Lestrade, have heard the prim and proper Mycroft Holmes say the word _fuck_. Twice. Like a _commoner_."

"Is the rarefied air bracing?"

"I am feeling exalted."

"I am not _prim_."

"My point exactly," Lestrade said gruffly. "You give it a good show, but you can be just as grubby as me, can't you? So, you know, I think it's all…fine."

"As grubby as I."

"And you're _such_ a wanker. Here I am, trying to—"

Mycroft pulled him into a kiss.

_Let me be yours until tomorrow  
Let me be yours_

They kissed, unhurried and smiling, until the record ran out. Silence settled into the room and they settled into each other's arms and into sleep.

 

***

 

Lestrade woke once during the night. Mycroft had worked himself into a loose-limbed sprawl beside him, lying on his back with his mouth partly open. He was snoring softly.

Lestrade rolled over and felt around on the bedside table for his mobile. He double-checked that Mycroft was still sleeping and then he sent a text.

_The hunter green Donegal tweed suit means he's happy._

 

*** 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade are listening to Irma Thomas in bed:  
> [It's Raining](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNZFbgszrVY)  
> [I Need Your Love So Bad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_XiW7VrQSo)  
> [I'm Yours Until Tomorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5z6BVxuxBCY)
> 
> Thank you LydSqd for so many amazing recommendations! And I hope you don't mind that Mycroft quoted you. :-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"But, Gregory, my longest relationship lasted exactly one hundred and eleven days...."_

"Where are you?"

Lestrade could make out Mycroft's uncharacteristically strident voice clearly through the speaker even before he tapped the hands-free button on his mobile.

"Can't you just check my tracker?" Lestrade replied, grinning to himself as he glanced in the rear view mirror.

Mycroft's most humorless sigh gusted from the phone. "There is no tracker. I've told you repeatedly there is no tracker."

"I'm almost there."

"No, you aren't. You're just crossing the Thames."

"Which you know from the tracker, right?"

"Which I know because I can hear the bells of All Saints in the background," snapped Mycroft. "So whilst you are not _almost_ here you are certainly _on your way_ here against my explicit recommendation."

"Yeah, well, your explicit recommendation was bollocks," Lestrade offered cheerfully, unfazed by Mycroft's peevishness. Mycroft had been in a foul mood all day.

"You could still divert your course and go to your club."

"I could do that, you're right. That is within my power. As is continuing to your house. Which I am doing."

Mycroft's voice clearly conveyed the scowl that Lestrade knew was on his face. "Gregory, I _did_ tell you—"

"You had a terrible day."

"I had a terrible day. Why you persist in seeking my company—"

"Do you know how I know you had a terrible day?"

"Your theories regarding my suit choices are absurd and ill-founded," Mycroft said impatiently.

"I know you've had a terrible day because you've made certain I know it by being a cranky, miserable, belligerent arsehole all day."

Mycroft sniffed audibly. "I have it under good authority I am always—"

"Crankier than usual."

"Well, it's been a terrible day."

Lestrade coasted to a stop at a traffic signal and tapped his index finger against his mouth. He was having a difficult time not chuckling even under the onslaught of Mycroft's ill humor. Because he knew perfectly well why Mycroft was _really_ in such a combative mood. "I also know you haven't opened the box yet."

"What box?"

"Oh, don't even try. I know you've seen it. I left it right in the middle of the dining table because if you've had a terrible day the first thing you did when you got home was walk through to the kitchen to put tea on. And to frown at that pastry tray and then walk away from it just so you'd feel the unfairness of the world a bit more."

"I did no such thing."

The refutation was swift and firm, which made Lestrade even more confident of his deductions. "Are you wearing my dressing gown?"

"No."

"Yes, you are. And the first thing you did was put on tea. Are you wearing my socks?"

"No."

The signal changed to green and Lestrade accelerated gently. "I'm almost there. I'm going to see them anyway."

"What makes you think I didn't already open the box?"

"Open the box."

"What is it?" Mycroft demanded, stubbornly suspicious.

"Mycroft, just open the bloody thing."

There was a heavy sigh from Mycroft's side of the call, followed by the sounds of paper rustling and tearing.

And then silence.

"…Mycroft?"

Mycroft's voice came back hushed. "Gregory."

Lestrade smiled. "I'm almost there."

 

***

 

Lestrade showed his palm to the scanner, entered this week's key code, and opened the front door.

"Mycroft?"

Lestrade dropped his briefcase in the entrance hall. The house was quiet, dark inside except for the soft lavender glow of sunset filtering in through the tall windows in the great room. Tufts of candy floss pink brushed at the corner of one leaded glass pane, camellias bobbing in the early spring breeze. The box was on the dining table, open and empty, guarded by Mycroft's two enormous statues of knights on horseback.

"Mycroft?"

Lestrade gave Left Horse a friendly pat on the nose. He still wasn't sure about Right Horse—its eyes followed him around the room—so Lestrade simply nodded politely in lieu of petting as he passed by.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, listening carefully.

"Mycroft?"

"Upstairs," Mycroft called back.

Lestrade took the stairs two at a time.

"I've set it up," Mycroft said, breathless as though he were the one who had just hurtled upstairs, when Lestrade came into the bedroom. He was wrapped in Lestrade's ratty old blue tartan dressing gown. And wearing Lestrade's mint green socks.

"You like it?"

Mycroft reached for Lestrade's hand, curling his fingers around Lestrade's. "It's wonderful."

Lestrade grinned, flushing. "I know it's not high end like yours or anything but…I restored it myself. The bloke in the antique shop said they don't make turntables like that any more and I just thought—"

"It's _wonderful_."

Lestrade slipped his arms around Mycroft's waist. "Happy one hundred and twelve."

"I've been dreadful to you today," Mycroft murmured.

"You have. And yet, in spite of your last ditch attempt to scare me off by being a cranky, miserable, belligerent arsehole, here I still am. On day one hundred and twelve."

"You frequently exhibit startlingly poor judgment."

"Lucky for you."

"Yes," Mycroft said softly, "It is."

"And Mycroft, just so you know…" Lestrade paused, cleared his throat. His voice had suddenly gone gruff. "I'm hoping for at least ten thousand and twelve more."

He hadn't planned to say that. He had meant to keep the evening light. It had only been a few months and although there were many ways in which Mycroft was remarkably, _satisfyingly_ demonstrative, there were still other ways in which he was reserved. But Lestrade _knew_. He just _knew_ and he couldn't stop himself.

"Good days, bad days, cranky days, as many as I can get. As many as you'll give me." Lestrade felt himself flush, felt the change in Mycroft's posture beneath his hands. "I'm sorry. Is that…too much?"

Mycroft pulled back, a slight frown knitting his brow. He ran his hands down Lestrade's arms and said, after a long pause, "I've chosen a song."

Lestrade blinked. "A song?"

Mycroft nodded toward his new vintage record player, already given pride of place on the shelves housing Mycroft's music collection and his beloved, thousand-pound, state-of-the-art sound system. "For its inauguration." He took a deep breath. And then another. His expression was grave. "I hope you will approve."

Mycroft crossed the room and moved the tone arm of the player in a gentle arc until needle touched vinyl. Music swelled, sweet and slow, and Mycroft turned to Lestrade and said, "Gregory."

_At last  
My love has come along_

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thank you so much, LydSqd, for this fantastic blues-themed prompt. I wish I could have worked in all the beautiful music you introduced me to. And thank you, antietamfalls, for all your feedback!
> 
> Play us out, Etta...  
> [At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwzDxp2TC7I)
> 
> Please go look at [THIS](https://joanacchi.tumblr.com/post/143016021495/based-on-the-fanfiction-to-all-the-lovers-in-the) and [THIS](https://joanacchi.tumblr.com/post/143016028215/based-on-the-fanfiction-to-all-the-lovers-in-the?is_related_post=1) AMAZING, ADORABLE To All the Lovers... art!!


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